


Into That World Inverted

by ClydeThistles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Dancing, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Massage, Yennaia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Yennefer and Tissaia growing closer, starts the night before Sodden. Also explores Tissaia's character with flashbacks to her past with an OC.Some stunning fanart to go with Chapters 1&5 now available on Tumblr from @riverstyxgoddess - links at top of each chapter!
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries & Original Female Character(s), Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 53
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter One

[Chapter One - Fanart](https://riverstyxgoddess.tumblr.com/post/629160462380138496/another-commissioned-fanart-for-clydethistless)

“You still have so much left to give.”

Before Yennefer can give name to the unexpected emotion in Tissaia’s voice and eyes, the fiddler begins a jaunty dance tune that breaks the moment. The rectoress stands and Yennefer waits for her to walk away from her in disappointment. After all, that is how their conversations always end. Instead the older woman drains the last of her ale and sets the horn on the wall emphatically before holding out her now empty hand to Yennefer. “Get up.”

Yennefer takes a moment to understand and then scoffs, “You can’t be serious?”

Tissaia arches her eyebrows at being refused and repeats in a voice like steel, “I said, get up.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and stands, sulking. Tissaia takes her hand and pulls her sharply into her, locking an arm around her waist, gripping her hand firmly. Yennefer is so taken aback she would have stumbled were it not for the steady arms round her. She is tall enough now that she looks down at the rectoress. It puts her at the right height for the scent of Tissaia’s hair to permeate every breath she takes. And for Tissaia’s breaths to whisper against Yennefer’s pulse point, her star vibrating imperceptibly from the Chaos that the two of them being so close together creates. She begins to explore the sensation of Tissaia’s breasts pressed against her. The way her hips feel through the fabric of her gown as Yennefer places her free hand there to steady herself. But before she can draw any conclusions, she is whisked into a polka and can only concentrate on her footwork, regretting her long dress. Yennefer registers the whoops of encouragement from the crowd round the fire. As she is spun past them, she sees the astonished delight on Triss and Sabrina’s faces and, to her smug satisfaction, the crestfallen look on Vilgefortz’s. The fiddler plays with new vigour, encouraged by the dancing, a pipe and lute joins in, more couples stand and soon there is a whirling, stamping circle round the fire, flaring sparks into the sky, hands clapping a beat. Tissaia leads her skilfully, weaving them in and out of the press of bodies. A gentle pressure here, a guiding caress there and Yennefer knows exactly where to go, how to move - even though the dance is unfamiliar to her. There is a challenge in Tissaia’s eyes, daring Yennefer to keep up as she spins faster, jumps higher, presses their bodies closer together with each hold. Yennefer smiles wickedly and accepts the bait, giving as good as she gets. And then, as the music reaches its dizzying crescendo, Yennefer swaps their hold suddenly. Still spinning, she grips the arch-mage by her waist and lifts her up along the length of her body until her navel is level with Yennefer’s chin. Tissaia’s eye widen in shock and she resists for a moment but something in her softens. She braces her hands against Yennefer’s shoulders, tilts her head back and laughs in delight. Yennefer is entranced, looking up at her. She has never seen Tissaia so carefree and unreserved – it is a beautiful sight. Yennefer feels her heart swell with affection and, she cannot deny it, pride that it is she who is holding her. The music ends and Yennefer lowers Tissaia to her feet, half-expecting to be admonished but Tissaia is all breathless smiles and clutching hands, her eyes sparkling. Yennefer sees for the first time the dimples that appear when she smiles properly. She cannot decide which is worse – that she has not noticed them before or that Tissaia has never smiled like that in her presence. Shaking herself from her reverie she realises Tissaia has been asking her a question.

“Hmm?” Yennefer hopes this is an appropriate response to whatever was said.

Tissaia rolls her eyes, “I said, I’m thirsty. Let’s find some more ale.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you take me for a lightweight?”

Yennefer smirks and Tissaia pulls herself up to her full height, glaring imperiously at the younger mage. “I will have you know I have drunk Skelliger jarls under the table and still been capable of casting Alzur’s Thunder afterwards.”

Yennefer chuckles and raises her palms in surrender. “Well in that case, lead the way. I bow to your superior knowledge and experience.”

Tissaia snorts, “That’ll be a first!” but sets off towards the barrels, somehow managing to _stride_ with decorum and grace. Yennefer shakes her head and follows wondering what further surprises the night will bring.

Later, they are lying on makeshift bedding on the ramparts, close together but not touching. The keep is quieter, the musicians tired and the refugees settling down for the night. Only a few murmurs and the crackling of the braziers disturb the air. It is quiet but not peaceful, an air of unease lingers and those lucky (or drunk) enough to sleep are envied by those who cannot. Yennefer shifts, trying to dislodge a pebble that is caught beneath her shoulder blade and settles again, rolling onto her side to look at Tissaia. She is lying with her back to Yennefer and the chain shifting round the high collar of her dress betrays that she is fiddling with her pendant.

“Remind me why you’re lying here rather than in Vilgefortz’s tent? What happened to living tonight?”

Tissaia rolls onto her back and turns her head to glance at Yennefer before returning her gaze skywards and replying, “He’s charming, amusing even. And I’m sure he’s handy with his sword.” Yennefer snorts at the innuendo and Tissaia’s smirk proves it was intentional. “But it takes more than that to get me into someone’s bed.”

“Even if it’s your last chance?”

“I cannot think of a better time to be choosy, who wants to end on an unsatisfying note?”

Yennefer nudges Tissaia’s mind gently, as though she were laying a hand on her shoulder to get her attention, asking permission to enter her thoughts which Tissaia grants.

_You’re wrong you know, Aretuza is not all you have…_

Tissaia turns onto her side to face Yennefer, locking eyes with her. Yennefer continues,

_You have me. In all my petty, noisy chaos. For whatever that is worth._

Yennefer lowers her eyes and smiles self-deprecatingly, Tissaia returns the smile carefully. She brushes a stray hair from Yennefer’s forehead, quiet for a moment before making the decision to risk saying her next words.

_It is worth more than you know._

_More than your four marks?_

Yennefer’s question is neither angry nor spiteful, only sad and it breaks Tissaia’s heart. Her eyes flutter with regret and she has to swallow the lump in her throat. She continues to stroke Yennefer’s hair as she voices her next thought which needs to be said out loud not telepathically.

“I should never have bought you like that. Forgive me.”

Yennefer closes her eyes against the tears that threaten, feeling the lashes brush against Tissaia’s wrist. To regain the upper hand she jibes, her voice dripping with sarcasm, opening her eyes to flash with mocking humour,

“Please and sorry in one day from Arch-Mistress Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza? That must be a record.”

Tissaia has the grace to blush a little but raises her eyebrows sternly all the same “Don’t go telling people, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe. I will take it to my grave. Tomorrow probably.”

Tissaia frowns and lowers her hand to grasp Yennefer’s wrist, running her thumb over the scars soothingly.

_No, I will not allow it. You get to live._

_I’m not sure you get to decide anymore. Besides, I said I was ready._

_You might be, but I am not. I am not ready to lose you, Yennefer. Not you too._

That last thought is paler, quieter as though it was meant only for Tissaia’s mind and not for Yennefer to hear. Yennefer does not comment but files the information away for later – there was once someone Tissaia lost. The older woman clears her throat and speaks again,

“You should sleep. Who knows what we may face tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I can, my mind is racing after itself in circles.”

Tissaia removes her hands from her wrist and Yennefer nearly protests but bites her lip against such weakness. Which only makes it more wonderful when Tissaia moves closer and arranges a fur over the two of them. She curls her small form round Yennefer and props herself up on an elbow looking down at the younger woman. Tissaia reaches out to touch Yennefer’s forehead but pauses just above the skin to whisper,

“May I?”

Yennefer nods, she does not trust her voice to reply. Tissaia presses light, cool fingers to Yennefer’s forehead and closes her eyes momentarily, concentrating. Yennefer feels her neck loosen and her mind quieten, a sense of calm envelopes her. Her eyes drift shut and, no longer caring if it looks weak, she rests her head against Tissaia’s chest nestling into her ruffled bodice. Tissaia lowers herself to lie down and wraps her arms round Yennefer, her chin resting on top of her head.

“Tissaia, I…” Yennefer mutters but she trails off as drowsiness wins.

“Sleep, Yennefer.” Tissaia’s voice is a low murmur, the sort that makes Yennefer melt inside and breathed right against her ear it makes her scalp shiver pleasantly. The smell of woodsmoke does not fully mask the rosemary and parchment scent of Tissaia and Yennefer breathes it in deeply as her vision swims into black and she remembers nothing more. Tissaia stays awake, feeling Yennefer’s dark curls tickle her chin, lilac and gooseberry drifting up from them. She waits until Yennefer is asleep, her breathing deep and even. Then, she presses her lips against Yennefer’s hair for a long moment before lying back to watch the stars. She will not sleep. Tonight, as has been the case many nights throughout her long life, Tissaia keeps watch over others. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia's inner monologue after confronting Fringilla in the woods. Yennfer unleashes all hell.

_Tissaia? Tissaia, I need you!_

The ground is damp beneath her cheek as she drags her heavy eyelids open. The last time she heard those words feels like a lifetime ago. It _was_ a lifetime ago. Tissaia groans against the memories clamouring for attention, threatening to spill out and stain the forest floor. She imagines cold steel bands around her ribcage, reinforcing it so that it may contain her restless aching heart. It is a technique she learnt centuries ago, and she has perfected it to such a degree that even now, even here, she feels it working. Nurturing an ice-cold resolve in herself she forces her fingers to grip a tuft of knotgrass and raises her head.

“Yennefer?”

Her voice is pitiful, to match her weak and useless body. Her veins are burning, her lungs wheeze and the nausea is overwhelming. The dimeritium had been a cowardly, low-down trick but Tissaia cannot help admiring Fringilla’s ruthlessness. Pulling herself up to a sitting position makes her retch horribly and she almost passes out again. She straightens her pendant and pulls the dead leaves from her hair, adjusts her muddy cuffs. As always, these little rituals calm her. Slowly, agonisingly so, she moves to her knees and then to stand hunched over and finally to take a step, and another, and another. It is eerily quiet in the copse of trees where she confronted Fringilla but the sounds of fighting carry on the wind so Tissaia steers herself towards them.

Her memories are fragmented, flashes of recall in amongst the carnage of dying men and women. She reaches the plain in front of the keep, takes a stand next to Coral and Atlan, forces her magic through the screaming resistance of the dimeritium. Her world narrows to this field and the constant barrage of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Incantation after incantation, she repels the attackers as fires burn around her and people scream. Her hands outstretched, a silvery light rippling through as she tries to create a shield, enforce a perimeter. She is finished, there is nothing left of her.

And then Yennefer finds her.

Clutching her abdomen, dirty and bloodied but impossibly beautiful even now. As Yennefer takes her hands, Tissaia feels the iron will that has been holding her upright dissolve and she sinks to her knees. Yennefer has always made her want to soften, to kneel and Tissaia has (almost) always fought it. But now with Yennefer holding her and death prowling at the edge of her vision, there are no walls left to hide behind, no more steel with which to bind her heart.

“You. You saved me. I won’t ever forget that.”

"Now it's your turn. To save this Continent, these people. This is your legacy."

"I _can't!_ "

Yennefer’s voice is desperately afraid and Tissaia determines to reassure her, even as she herself is fading. She knows this is, has always been, her purpose. To take broken girls and make them fly. And so, Tissaia gives what little is left of herself to Yennefer.

 _“_ You _can._ Everything you have ever felt, everything you've buried. Forget the bottle. Let your Chaos _explode_.”

She cups Yennefer’s cheek with a gloved hand and finds herself wishing she could feel her skin against her fingertips. It is a cruel metaphor for every interaction in her life – always a protective layer of leather between her and anyone else and Tissaia laughs bitterly to herself. But then Yennefer leans her forehead against Tissaia’s, and she can feel her skin in all its sweaty, soot-stained, wonderfully alive warmth. The tang of saltpetre, iron, and smoke clings to Yennefer but beneath it all lingers the sweet tartness of her infamous perfume. They shut their eyes and open their minds simultaneously, the thoughts flowing through them saying all that cannot be said in the time that is left. Yennefer is overwhelmed at the complexity and depth of Tissaia’s mind, by the swirling emotions finally released there. Passion, fear, pride, anger and underpinning it all a warm, solid tenderness that takes her breath away. Tissaia aches at the self-doubt and regret and the tentative, fearful adoration she feels in Yennefer. She reaches in to sooth it, cradling her thoughts until they tremble no longer.

_Go now, my darling girl. You are stronger than you can possibly imagine. Give them hell._

_Tissaia…_

_Go!_

For once in her life, Yennefer obeys and stands, climbing the rocky promontory. Tissaia grits her teeth and gets to her feet, she refuses to die kneeling. She forgets Coral impaled on a nearby tree, and Atlan blasting himself to pieces along with several soldiers in a final desperate kinetic rush. She forgets the thud of boots closing in on her. She turns her back to the oncoming danger so that she can look at Yennefer. _This_ will be the last thing she sees, not agony or fear or destruction but her girl, her beautiful chaotic girl. When the inferno erupts from Yennefer’s hands Tissaia crouches, shielding herself with only her own arms, no magic left with which to protect herself. Not that she is trying to survive; she has accepted her death. Which is why, as the heat sears her skin but does not burn her, as her breath catches in the raging air but is not stolen from her, she can only look up in wonder.

Later, as she stumbles to the rocks in search of Yennefer, the glowing sparks floating in the air seem to her to be her own heart. Released at last and burst into a thousand shining pieces. She wonders whether she should stop to gather them up. After all it would not do to have the Northern Kingdoms picking and prodding over the remnants of Tissaia de Vries’ soul. She then berates herself for such fanciful notions and forces her rogue mind back to reality, to the scorched earth and her hoarse crying out of Yennefer’s name. She rushes to the crumpled body lying a few yards away from the rocks and falls beside it. Yennefer is breathing and the whisper of it against Tissaia’s palm is the sweetest thing she has ever felt. With neither the magic nor the will left to do anything more, Tissaia lays herself protectively over Yennefer and waits to be found. As consciousness slips from her grasp she realises she need not have worried over collecting the firefly-like fragments. They have come to float above her and drift down towards the two of them. Her heart knows where it belongs.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer wakes and we get some sass from her. Tissaia agrees to distract her with a story. We meet our OC.

Yennefer is woken rudely and before she is ready which never bodes well. Someone is clattering about and she decides she will strangle them as soon as her limbs don’t feel so heavy. She aches all over and her mouth is horribly dry. Whoever that imbecile is rattling glassware as if they were a tavern wench could at least make themselves useful and bring her some water. Gods only know why they’re moving about in the dark, surely, they’d make less noise if they lit a candle or two? Rolling over and stretching into a star fish she realises she is not in her own bed. This bed is far too narrow, her limbs now dangling uncomfortably off the edge. She’s about to throw the pathetically flat pillow at whoever is making that infernal racket but freezes when she opens her eyes to aim and it’s pitch black. She rubs her eyelids and tries again, still nothing. Waves her hand in front of her nose and does not see it. Panic fills her and she howls, thrashing about on the rickety cot trying to stand but failing miserably. Multiple unfamiliar hands take hold of her and she fights them off, straining against their grip, swearing bloody murder at them.

“Yennefer! Control yourself!”

The all too familiar admonishment in the all too recognisable voice brings Yennefer to her senses. Even so, she’s too angry not to mutter petulantly,

“Tell them to get their fucking hands off me.”

“Leave us.”

“Are you sure, Mistress?” This from a reedy voice with a Kaedweni accent, Yennefer bets this is the idiot with a penchant for making a din.

“Quite sure. You may leave those herbs however.”

“But- “

“Must I really ask again?”

Yennefer cannot see her, but she knows Tissaia well enough to picture the arch of her eyebrows, the slight flare of her nostrils. And the cowering obedience that will now permeate every fibre of the fool who questioned her. She smirks despite the anxiety still gnawing at her. It is hard not to be smug when it is not herself on the receiving end of Tissaia’s scorn. She could grow to enjoy being a spectator to the sport.

The heavy-footed Kaedweni shuffles away and Yennefer hears the rustle of canvass. She must be in a tent of sorts, Yennefer decides. The canvass, the cot, the rattling of implements – a medical tent, a field hospital.

“Would you like me to help you up?”

Tissaia’s voice has moved closer making Yennefer jump. She nods and fumbles blindly for Tissaia’s hand. When it finds her, she jolts at the spark between them.

“Don’t be alarmed. A great deal of energy still moves through you. The excess is finding its way out.”

“It didn’t happen when those gorillas were holding me down.”

“I’m hypothesising but I imagine it will only occur when another conduit touches you.”

Yennefer grunts as Tissaia pulls her up to sit and settles her. She feels the mattress dip beside her and the brush of Tissaia’s sleeve against her arm. It is a rough cotton, not satin or wool, Tissaia must have changed. It's a shame if the burgundy gown is ruined, Yennefer rather liked that one.

“Here, drink.” Tissaia carefully puts a beaker in her hands and Yennefer lifts it to her mouth, swallowing greedily. She misses once or twice and splashes herself, but the tent is hot, so the damp patches are pleasantly cool against her chest and thighs. A heavy silence has grown between them, making the already stifling air unbearably thick. Yennefer clears her throat,

“Tissaia, my eyes?”

“I will not insult you by pretending all is well. The field surgeons are still debating the extent of the damage. I’ve sent for one of Nenneke’s girls and mages skilled in healing. But for now, yes, you are blind.”

“What happened?”

“You channelled a vast amount of energy to unleash that level of Chaos. There is no take without give – you know this.”

“Sometimes the best thing a flower can do for us it to die.” Yennefer recites bitterly, clenching her hands in her lap. It is only now she registers the bandaging around them. Tissaia unclasps her angry fingers one by one to lay them flat against her own. Little sparks of energy dance between their palms until the Chaos settles, quietening to a pleasant tingling.

“You _should_ have died. _I_ should have died. That we are both sitting here is testament only to your strength, your skill. Yennefer, whatever else may come I am so very proud of you.”

The gentleness in Tissaia’s voice pulls forth the memories which had taken a backseat to Yennefer’s panic over her eyesight. She recalls the rectoress in her arms at the dance, the tickle of the fur as she slept. And she remembers too the blood, the fear, the raging Chaos ripping through her as she’d burnt hundreds of people alive. Yennefer feels her face crumple and hot tears trickle down her nose, struggling to escape her swollen eyelids. The mattress lifts as Tissaia stands and moves away which Yennefer is grateful for. After all, there is nothing so ugly as a sorceress crying. She sniffs indelicately and swipes at her cheeks to dry them, composes herself before returning her attention to her surroundings. Tissaia is occupied with something and Yennefer twists her head towards the sounds, trying to picture the corresponding actions. Stone clinking against stone – a mortar and pestle. The long rasp of a bandage being unwound. Something herbal drifts in the air. Arenaria? Hornwort?

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a salve for your hands. They’re burnt.”

“No shit? How did that happen?”

Yennefer surprises herself, she isn’t feeling nearly cheerful enough to be sardonic. Tissaia makes an odd hiccupping sound and Yennefer is alarmed until she realises it’s a suppressed chuckle. She feels a grin tugging at her mouth in response and suddenly they are both laughing, clutching their sides, and gasping for air. Yennefer wishes more than anything she could see Tissaia right now. She wants to enjoy her high cheekbones pinking, her nose wrinkling, the crinkling at the corners of her eyes and the relaxing of her usually pursed upper lip. When they regain control of themselves Yennefer is weak from mirth, but she would not have missed the rich sound of Tissaia’s belly-laugh for anything in the world. A chair scrapes and is set down in front of her. Tissaia's skirts rustle as she sits in it and speaks, still a little breathless from her laughter,

“Give me your hands one at a time.”

Yennefer proffers her left palm and Tissaia unwinds the bandage carefully, trying not to tug at the tender skin. She smooths the fragrant paste over the throbbing burns, eliciting a sigh of relief from Yennefer as the pain eases. Tissaia then binds fresh linen over the salve, taking satisfaction from the neat layers, meticulously symmetrical. When Yennefer’s hands are tended to, Tissaia helps her to lie back on her cot. It is only when the rectoress leans over her to adjust the pillow that Yennefer hears the rattling in her chest. She grabs Tissaia’s forearm, furrowing her brow in concern.

“Your chest? I can hear it.”

“It’s nothing.”

Yennefer grips her harder insisting, “Tell me!”

“Fringilla had dimeritium. They’ve managed to remove it from my bloodstream, but I inhaled some. It’s just an irritation in my lungs, nothing to fuss over.”

Yennefer huffs sceptically but leaves it be for now. She decides she is going to murder Fringilla. No, not murder, she is going to _eviscerate_ her. With this comforting thought she dozes off.

That afternoon, Tissaia tries to concentrate on the book of anatomical studies she picked up from the healer’s table in their tent. She has no burning desire to acquaint herself with the detailed mechanics of her knees, but she needs something to keep her occupied and there is no better reading material on hand. She thinks wistfully of her library in Aretuza. But that would mean leaving Yennefer. Besides, she’s not sure she could muster a portal just yet, her synapses still groggy with dimeritium and exhaustion. It had been a small victory when she managed to light a lantern with an incantation rather than the tinder flint. Now, the lantern is struggling against the creeping dimness of evening and her eyes are straining. With a frustrated sigh she snaps the book shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s only been two days since the battle, but it feels like an eternity. Yennefer had woken early today raising quite the ruckus but Tissaia had been glad to see her raging and spitting. It had been a relief after the silence from her limp, lifeless body. As if on cue, Yennefer stirs, clears her throat then calls out,

“Tissaia?”

“I’m here. How are you feeling?”

“Ooh just dandy, fit as a fiddle.” She somehow manages to roll her eyes despite having no visible corneas. “I’m bored.”

“Well, I was just familiarising myself with the human body, I can read to you if you’d like?”

“I am going to assume you mean some dreadful anatomical volume and not a randy novel.”

Tissaia splutters and Yennefer smirks, “Honestly Tissaia, ‘familiarising myself with the human body’ – what did you expect me to say?”

Tissaia can feel her cheeks burning and she picks at an invisible speck of lint to regain her dignity. Yennefer stretches languidly,

“I’ll pass on the medical textbook, but I wouldn’t mind you telling me a story. You could start with your mysterious lover.”

“I beg your pardon?” Tissaia splutters for the second time in as many minutes and begins to recall why she usually meditates before talking to Yennefer. Unabashed, Yennefer continues,

“The other night you said, ‘not you too’. Who did you lose?”

“That is not a story for telling.” Tissaia tries to sound stern but her inner steel seems to have been re-forged in Yennefer’s inferno, made softer and less unyielding. Which may prove highly inconvenient if it does not toughen soon. Yennefer sits up and pesters her eagerly,

“Oh, go on! I shan’t tell anyone. Is it dreadfully romantic? Or inappropriate? Were there _clandestine assignations?_ ”

“You’re practically drooling, Yennefer. It is not attractive.” Tissaia nervously fingers her pendant, glad Yennefer cannot see her. “Besides, now is neither the time nor the place to talk of such things.”

Yennefer huffs and flops back onto her cot wheedling, “Please? I need a distraction from… everything.” She pouts miserably and Tissaia gives an exasperated sigh. Against her better judgement, she relents and draws up a chair to sit beside Yennefer’s cot.

“Her name was Isàna.” It has been years since her lips formed that appellation and it saddens her how unfamiliar it now feels.

Yennefer bolts upright, “Her?”

“I cannot possibly have shocked you of all people?”

“Not at all. I just didn’t have you pegged as a muff diver.”

Tissaia exhales sharply and abruptly stands, “This was a mistake.”

“Alright, alright I’ll behave.” Yennefer holds up her bandaged hands in a conciliatory gesture, “I’m sorry.”

Tissaia sits again, interlocking her fingers and frowning. Yennefer presses her in a gentler voice,

“You loved this woman?”

“I’d rather not speak about her. Not here. But I could show you.” 

It will be easier this way, nothing said out loud only for it to be left hanging in the air with Tissaia wishing she could reel it back in. And there is part of her that likes the idea of giving Yennefer something visual. Something she can watch, even it is only in her mind’s eye and not with her damaged retinas. Tissaia lays her palm against Yennefer’s temple to make the thought transference easier and the images sharper. The last time she’d done this with Yennefer they had been stood in front of Giltine’s mirror. Emotions chase across the younger woman’s face as they share this recall before Tissaia clears her mind to a blank canvass. Taking a deep breath, the rectoress closes her eyes and lets herself remember things she has worked extremely hard to forget.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia's first flashback. Some indulgent descriptive writing on my part.

It is an odd sensation having another’s memories play through her mind, Yennefer thinks. As though she is watching a lake whose surface is dark and smooth at first. Then, ripples and pinpricks of light appear until the water is clear and bright like on a hot summer’s day. Perfect imitations of the world now reflected in its surface that she may observe them. Sight, sound, scent, touch - all gradually filters in until she is immersed in the remembrance.

The rectoress’ study looks much the same in this memory as it did when Yennefer was summoned there last. The desk, solid ebony polished to a sheen, takes pride of place with the arched windows behind it so that the daylight falls onto whatever manuscripts are spread across its surface. And so that any visitor is forced to squint against the light, their every move illuminated whilst Tissaia sits silhouetted, dark, and unreadable. The windows are leaded and set deep within the honey-coloured brick wall creating a ledge wide enough to sit comfortably in. Teal velvet curtains and columns of black granite frame the window. Matching columns run the length of the room, supporting a gallery with a low mahogany balustrade round it. The gallery is reached by a spiral staircase of iron and houses floor-to-ceiling bookcases. And oh, the books! Leather-bound volumes with gold runic lettering, creamy parchment scrolls rolled onto olive-wood handles, bundles of yellowed paper covered in scrawling ink, tied up with satin ribbons and encased in wrought-iron covers. Knowledge abounding on every subject imaginable, all sitting there waiting to be absorbed. Sconces in the shape of eagles with outstretched wings line the walls of both the gallery and lower-level, candles held in their talons and oil lamps hung from their beaks. To the right of the desk, under the gallery floor, is a long alchemy table flanked by spheres depicting the Continent’s geography and constellations. Agates, beeswax, feather quills, bunches of dried herbs, glass vials, stoneware jars, brass scales and a mortar and pestle made of white marble. All these are arranged on the table in perfect order, neatly and with precision. The middle of the room, between the desk and the door, holds a sofa where guests may sit should they merit the courtesy of not being kept standing. Here also, the ceiling rises high up to a glass dome through which the stars can be observed. Meanwhile, under the gallery floor on the left, the room spreads out into a snug chamber. There is a fireplace with two armchairs in front of it and an Ofieri rug graces the flagstones. Opposite the fire, a table with impossibly spindly legs holds a crystal decanter, the claret inside winking ruby and plum in the firelight. A studded door leads from the snug to a bedchamber. The entire study smells of Tissaia, of rosemary and parchment and the fragrant woody scent of her tobacco.

Tissaia herself is sat at her desk, writing, the scratching of her quill the only sound apart from the rush and sigh of the sea that fills Aretuza day and night. She does not look much different, the parallel lines between her eyebrows are less pronounced perhaps. The cut of her gown strikes Yennefer as old-fashioned however so it must be further back in time than Tissaia’s face would indicate. Yennefer searches for further clues and spots a crystal ball next to the components of a rudimentary megascope. Megascopes are invented but not yet fine-tuned enough to render the crystal balls superfluous. So, roughly forty years before Yennefer was born. Her deductions are interrupted by sonorous ringing from the bell-tower announcing the hour. Tissaia glances at the hourglass on her desk and notes with satisfaction that the last grains of white sand trickle down just as the final chime dies away. She inverts the ampoule bulb in its silver casing, finishes her letter with an elegant signature then sits back in her chair, steepling her fingers. When the bell rings the quarter, she stands and picks a lantern from the nearest eagle’s beak, lighting it with a flick of her fingers. Then, she leaves her study, making her way down a labyrinth of corridors. Wherever Tissaia is going, Yennefer is not familiar with the route and she is surprised there are still areas of Aretuza she does not know despite her prohibited night-time explorations as a student.

They reach a spiral staircase of stone with only a tatty rope as a banister, leading up into a tower Yennefer had thought was an empty ruin when she used to glimpse it at the far end of the island. Not as tall or imposing as Tor Lara and rather shabby looking, she doubted whether most students even registered its existence. Then the realisation hits her – perhaps they are not _meant_ to notice it. Itching with curiosity she follows the rectoress upwards, glad that she does not have to experience the burning in her thigh muscles the climb would cause were this the real world. At last, they reach the top and a single archway leads onto a balcony jutting out over the sea. Dusk is falling and Tissaia sets the lantern carefully on a hook in the wall before stepping out onto the balcony. The sea is calm, a light breeze stirs her hair, the sun sits below the horizon but still tinges the clouds with pink. Slowly, purposefully, the arch-mage raises her hands, pronouncing a complex incantation Yennefer struggles to follow past the eighth syllable. The air around Tissaia begins to hum, making her scalp prickle and her skin pebble. The wind starts to whistle and a gun-metal grey stains the horizon. Waves crash and froth, white-foaming and green with dislodged kelp, the sky turns purple-black, bruised and angry. The first forked branches of lightning crackle followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder and sheets of driving rain unleash over Thanedd.

Tissaia can hear the Chaos whispering to her, enticing her further, pulling at her ribcage. _Let me in! Freedom, power, you and I together!_ She supresses it, locking herself tight within until she is only control, only balance, nothing felt or desired. The wind snatches at her skirts and cloak, ruffles her hair, salt-spray hits her cheeks and oh, it is tempting to surrender to it, to the raw power. Closing her eyes, she inhales, exhales, draws her hands back in to clasp together at her waist, relinquishing the energy that had been streaming from her open palms. As the storm continues of its own accord, she steps back into the tower her breath fogging in the now cold air. With the old familiar mix of relief tinged by disappointment she takes the lantern down. She is always glad to have controlled herself but still, even now, she feels the regret of a chance missed. The Chaos always sounds so inviting, she cannot help but wish she had submitted. Straightening her pendant, smoothing her hair, she squares her shoulders and descends the staircase with poise. Perfectly balanced.

The world blurs suddenly and Yennefer’s mind is filled with ripples and pixels again. The next memory Tissaia wishes her to see forms gradually but Yennefer recognises the location before it has finished taking shape. She flinches at the smell of salt, the crackling static of unbridled Chaos, the glistening of rain on cold, dark obsidian.

Tor Lara.

The group of girls is arranged in the customary circle round the stone plinth, clutching their bottles and blinking at the rain spattering their faces. The storm Tissaia had conjured an hour ago is still raging and lightning shoots through the oculus at irregular intervals. One by one the students are summoned to stand under the lightning and master themselves so that they may harness its power. Three fail, two succeed and at last there is only one girl remaining. She is rather short with thick blonde hair scraped back into a braid. Her novice’s smock is ill-fitting, and she must have been slow to waken because her feet are bare as though she was dragged from her room before she’d retrieved her shoes. She is perhaps sixteen although Yennefer finds it hard to judge age nowadays, longevity has distorted her perception of average lifespans. Tissaia barks at the blonde girl who is deep in thought.

“Isàna! Move, girl!”

Isàna climbs onto the plinth but does not raise her bottle, instead, she holds out her palm as though catching a raindrop. Yennefer screws up her eyes, tensing, waiting for the next bolt to send the girl flying. Tissaia clears her throat to call for another stretcher but is struck dumb by what happens next. The lightning strikes but stops mid-air, just above Isàna’s palm. It hovers there, spitting and hissing but gradually quietening, turning into a pearly fog-like substance which Isàna then trickles down into her bottle. Tissaia frowns so hard that her eyes grow hooded like a hawk’s, she marches up to the plinth and grabs the girl by the ear.

“What are you playing at? _How dare you?_ ”

“Please! It seemed foolish to try and catch it, so I manipulated it first!”

“How? Where did you steal that trick from? Speak!”

“It’s only the water-bending incantation we learnt last year. I swear!”

Whatever Tissaia was going to say in response she is cut short as another bolt crackles down towards them. The girls shriek and Tissaia’s heart leaps into her mouth. She does not get the chance to deflect it however as she is pulled backwards, crashing off the plinth to land on the wet rocky floor. Isàna has thrown them both out of the way, making sure she lands first to cushion the rectoress’ fall. As Tissaia tries to extricate herself from the tangle of limbs and skirts she is furious, soaking wet and clutching at the remains of her dignity.

“You idiot girl! There was no need for such heroics, do you imagine me incapable of deflecting a lightning bolt?”

Isàna only groans in response clutching her ankle.

“Everyone, back to your rooms.” No one moves and Tissaia thunders, “Out! Now!”

The students scurry away murmuring amongst themselves, the bravest sneaking glances backwards. When only Tissaia and Isàna remain, the rectoress crouches down beside her. Isàna hisses when she probes her ankle and Tissaia is certain it is broken. She should call for an adept to take her to the medical wing and be done with it. But her curiosity is roused. Tissaia has read of mages able to process dangerous amounts of energy and turn it into useable power. ‘Anchors’ is the term used if she recalls correctly. Mages who do not control Chaos by learning to dominate it or by ignoring their own emotions, but by calming it. She has never laid much store by the theory nor has she met one in person. And yet, the girl had just turned lightning into a glowing fog, making it docile enough to coax into her bottle. And the only reason her ankle is broken in the first place is because she was protecting Tissaia. Such gallantry was unnecessary and stupid of course, but Tissaia can’t help feeling a little flattered by it. And so, she makes up her mind and holds out a hand to the girl.

“Come, we must tend to your ankle. You may come to my study, I’ve a herbs and bandages and a warm fire to dry you off.”

“There’s no need, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

She shoulders Isàna’s weight and they limp off together. Yennefer watches them as they pass by her and she doesn’t like the gleam in Tissaia’s eyes. She’s never seen it before, and it takes a moment to put her finger on it. It is the glint in the cardsharp’s eyes as he rubs his palms together when an unsuspecting victim sits at his table. It is greed.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some (gentle) smut. Yennefer's eyes are restored and the first thing she does is watch Tissaia taking a bath.

[Chapter Five - Fanart](https://riverstyxgoddess.tumblr.com/post/628725315260366848/yennaia-fanart-inspired-by-clydethistless)

Had anyone told her she would one day be glad to see the walls of an Aretuza bedchamber, Yennefer would have laughed in their face. Now however, as Nenneke removes the dressing and lamplight fills her pupils making her dizzy, Yennefer could shout for joy. It has taken almost two weeks, but the swelling has reduced, and, with some magical intervention, her sight is restored. The morning after Tissaia had shown Yennefer the first of her memories, they had left Sodden for Aretuza. Since then, her visits to Yennefer have been perfunctory and infrequent. And now that she is finally able to _look_ for the arch-mage, Yennefer is determined to find her. Practically skipping to Tissaia’s study, hungrily eyeing everything and everyone she passes on the way, she rejoices in being able to walk unaided, not having to test her surroundings with outstretched hands. Not bothering to knock, she bursts into the study only to find it empty. She is about to storm out in frustration but pauses when she hears water splashing. Creeping through the snug to the studded door, which is standing ajar, Yennefer peers round it.

A large cast-iron bathtub is sitting on the flagstones, steam rising from it. The fire crackling in the grate and an oil lamp cast a warm glow over the room. Tissaia is sat on the edge of the tub, her back to the door, wearing one of her casual dresses without the high collar and corset, the fabric black and almost diaphanous in the firelight. As Yennefer watches unseen, she unbuttons her cuffs and rolls up her sleeves revealing delicate wrists and supple forearms. Yennefer realises she has never seen Tissaia’s bare arms and decides she rather likes them. Tissaia tests the water with her hand and gives a satisfied nod. Then, as Yennefer tries to breathe quietly, Tissaia slips the dress from her shoulders letting it pool at her waist. Rolling the kinks from her shoulders and reaching up, she pulls the pins from her intricately arranged hair, one by one. She fastidiously sets each pin in a small box which would normally have annoyed Yennefer, but it only makes the process more enchanting. The long coil of her hair falls down her back and with her fingers she untwists it, her pale skin a stark contrast against the dark tresses. Just as it finally hangs loose and free, Tissaia winds her hair up again and Yennefer nearly protests out loud, but she bites her tongue. Tissaia thrusts a large, silver two-pronged pin into the loose twist she has made and Yennefer sighs. This is somehow even more magnificent than her hair simply hanging loose. It sits at the nape of her neck, little curls and wisps escaping here and there, the firelight picking out chestnuts, rubies, and chocolates in the gentle waves. Tissaia stands and steps out of her dress, folding it carefully over a chairback. Yennefer swallows hard. Sweet Melitele, _this_ was a sight worth having eyes for!

The older woman steps into the water and sinks down, leaning back and raising a toned calf towards the ceiling, flexing her toes. She reaches for a bar of soap but drops it and it skids along the floor to the doorway where Yennefer is standing transfixed. Tissaia’s eyes follow the soap and widen when it skitters to a halt at Yennefer’s feet,

“How long have you been there?” she squawks, crossing her arms modestly across herself.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Yennefer picks up the soap and comes to stand beside the tub.

“Your eyes? You can see?” Tissaia sounds simultaneously pleased and horrified and Yennefer laughs,

“Oh yes, I can see.” To prove her point, she runs her gaze down the length of Tissaia’s body who goes an adorable shade of pink.

“I’m glad, truly. Now, give me my soap!”

She holds out a dripping hand for it then realises she’s left her chest uncovered and snaps her arm back in place. Yennefer chuckles and kneels at the head of the bath, settling herself behind Tissaia who shifts nervously. The younger woman takes a soft sponge and lathers the rogue soap all through it, dips it in the water and runs it over Tissaia’s bare shoulder. She shivers,

“Yennefer, stop…”

Yennefer uses her free hand to cup Tissaia’s neck, holding her still so she may murmur in her ear,

“Hush. Trust me?”

Tissaia hesitates only a moment then exhales slowly and nods, unfolding her arms. Yennefer smiles and begins to wash her. She glides along her shoulders, up her neck, down each arm. And then leans further forward, her chin resting on Tissaia’s shoulder, so her arms can snake round and reach her belly. Up between her breasts and along her collarbones. Tissaia’s chest is heaving and her head falls back against Yennefer, lips parted, and eyes closed, a little frown creasing between her eyebrows. Yennefer uses her index finger to smooth the creases, stroking until the frown disappears. Then her sponge continues its journey oh so slowly down to circle a nipple peaking at the first touch. Tissaia grips her wrist to still her hand,

“Don’t. Not there.”

Yennefer wants nothing more than to continue her attentions at Tissaia’s breasts, but she senses now is not the time to take control. So, she instead moves to the foot of the bath, reaching down into the water to lift one of Tissaia’s ankles out. She runs the soapy sponge up over the bridge of her foot, round the heel and ankle, gliding up the calf and into the ticklish spot behind her knee. Then repeats the action with the other leg. She spots a small glass bottle with an ornate metal stopper and takes a curious sniff. Rosemary oil. Tissaia has relaxed again so Yennefer decides feet are safe territory and lets the sponge fall into the water. She pours a little oil into her cupped hand and rubs her palms together before grasping Tissaia’s leg and coating the skin from knee to toe. She is about to start massaging when she remembers her hands. The burns have healed but her palms are still rough with shiny patches and puckered ridges. She hesitates, imagining the horrible, rasping way her touch must feel against Tissaia’s smooth skin. Tissaia’s mind entreats her,

_Don’t stop._

_My hands…_

Yennefer does not continue the thought, there is no need, Tissaia can read her after all. Tissaia opens her eyes to lock with Yennefer’s.

_You are perfect as you are. You always have been. Touch me._

Yennefer’s stomach drops at the command, given in a voice breathless and tender but a command nonetheless. Smiling, she obeys. She delights in the intricate fan of bones in Tissaia’s foot that she can feel under her fingers, the delicate blue-veined skin stretched over her ankle, the little dents either side of her kneecap where Yennefer’s fingers fit perfectly. The supple muscles under smooth skin, so different to a man’s but nothing weak or brittle in it. From her vantage point she can see the sharp point of Tissaia’s hip bones, the soft curve between them and her bottom ribs, the swell of her full breasts, nipples rosy and proud, all the way up to her collarbones and dimpled chin. When both legs are done Yennefer makes to shift up again but Tissaia lifts her head from the edge it had been resting against,

_Stay there a moment. I want to look at you._

Yennefer shakes her curls and smirks, flashing violet eyes at Tissaia who purses her lips,

_Stop it. Stop performing. I want to see **you.**_

Yennefer balks and is about to say something sarcastic when she remembers the way Tissaia’s thoughts had felt just before she’d burnt Nilfgaard. She sighs and lets her chin rest on the edge of the tub so that she’s looking up at Tissaia through her lashes. Pulls her raven curls back a little so that her face is unobscured. And slips one hand into the water to run a thumb gently over Tissaia’s ankle. Tissaia smiles at her,

_There’s my girl._

Yennefer smiles in return, properly smiles and it feels so right that she can’t remember why she wanted to fight it in the first place. Tissaia’s eyes darken and she holds out a hand,

_Come here._

Yennefer does as she’s told but slowly, making sure to stand so she can look down at Tissaia as she walks. It would not do to give up control that easily. She kneels at the side of the tub, placing her hand in Tissaia’s outstretched one. Tissaia traces a finger down her palm, rubs a thumb over the back of her hand in little circles, interlocks their fingertips and draws Yennefer’s palm down to press a kiss to it. It is brief and dry, almost chaste but it makes Yennefer’s breath hitch. She swoops in to kiss her on the mouth but Tissaia puts a hand between them to hold her back, gentle but firm.

_I want you. Let me, Tisssaia._

_There are things you should know first._

Yennefer splashes the bathwater frustrated, “To hell with your cryptic forebodings! Don’t you want this?”

Tissaia grows stern, “We will do this my way or not at all.”

Yennefer glares at her and it is a battle of wills, their eyes flashing green and violet, a tussle for the upper hand that has been raging ever since that day in the pig pen all those years ago. This time, Yennefer is first to look away. She stands,

“Fine. Get dressed and then you’re going to show me whatever this awful truth is that you’re so determined will make me hate you.”

She stalks out of the bedchamber, mainly so she won’t have to control herself when Tissaia steps out of the water and every part of her is visible. The fire in the study has died down so Yennefer throws on more logs and stirs the embers with the poker, jabbing angrily. She pours herself a glass of claret and downs it.

“Help yourself to _my_ wine why don’t you?”

Yennefer turns startled, Tissaia has appeared wearing a tartan dressing gown that is a little big for her. It makes her look small and cosy and Yennefer’s throat constricts, wanting to wrap her up in her arms and keep her safe. She scolds herself mentally, this is ridiculous sentimental nonsense! She can cope with being aroused by Tissaia, with finding her attractive but this, this tugging at her chest, is not acceptable. Tissaia sits in an armchair and beckons Yennefer over, laying a large cushion at her feet. The younger mage settles herself on the pillow, leaning her back against Tissaia’s knees and moodily drains another glass of wine just because she is feeling rebellious. Tissaia rests her hand on the crown of Yennefer’s head, stroking absentmindedly.

“Ready?” she asks

Yennefer lays her head more comfortably in Tissaia’s lap then nods. They close their eyes and the now familiar ripples fills Yennefer’s mind as another memory begins. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback exploring Tissaia's sometimes cruel and harsh methods. Please forgive the geologically inaccurate, but oh so useful, coal-to-diamond trope.

The quadrangle at Aretuza is surrounded by a roofed balcony on all sides meaning one can walk the perimeter unobserved whilst watching those below. Tissaia is doing just that, her hands clasped at her waist, strolling with a measured tread, her heeled boots clicking slightly on the flagstones. The grassy square below is dotted with clusters of students lounging and chatting. A large, rowdy group has gathered in the corner diagonally opposite Tissaia and she twitches her eyebrows suspiciously. As she gets closer, strains of music reach her ears. She is about to berate them when she spots Isàna in the middle of the group, playing a fiddle, her fingers moving furiously in a slip-jig. She’s very good and Tissaia can’t help tapping her toe along. Some novices are burling together, criss-crossing down a line. Tissaia should stop them but she wants nothing more than to join in. Her predecessor had cautioned of the burden of responsibility. Of the delicate balancing act between Aretuza and the Brotherhood. But no one had warned her being Rectoress was a lonely business. A girl lets out a particularly raucous whoop and Tissaia decides enough is enough. She sticks her head through the colonnade,

“Isàna! My office, now!”

The fiddle screeches as Isàna jumps, the bow juddering across the strings. Deathly silence fills the quadrangle and the students slip away furtively hoping they will be spared a scolding. Tissaia flicks her hand to disperse them then sweeps purposefully along the corridors to her study.

Isàna is waiting for her, her fiddle clutched under her arm and an entreating smile on her face.

“It’s no use smiling at me like that. Hand it over.”

Tissaia takes the instrument and opens the door, laying the fiddle on her desk. Isàna hovers in the doorway and Tissaia beckons her inside with an impatient tilt of her head.

“How’s your ankle?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Tissaia leans on the edge of her desk, stroking her pendant. “And you’ve told no one about your trick with the lightning? Or our conversation afterwards and the extra lessons we’re having?”

“You said not to, so I haven’t.”

“That was rather gullible of you. Aren’t you the least bit curious about my motives?”

“I trust you.” Isàna says it without ostentation and Tissaia frowns,

“You should not be so quick to trust. Nor so sincere in your interactions. If people can read you, they will manipulate you.”

“You wouldn’t though.”

Isàna does not catch the jump in Tissaia’s jaw but Yennefer does, and she narrows her eyes. Tissaia continues,

“You cannot be sure of that. No one is infallible.”

Isàna stares at her for a moment with unnerving intensity then replies, “I am sure of you.”

Tissaia tries to quell the pleasure this admission gives her and the guilt nagging at her conscience. She clears her throat and stands,

“Come then. I have some theories I’d like to test.”

They move to the centre of the room, Tissaia giving instructions, handing her various objects, subjecting her to certain charms and potions, all the while taking extensive notes. Yennefer bristles and would intervene if she were able to interact with the memories. She’s experimenting on the girl! The lesson continues into the evening until Isàna yawns and rubs her eyes, the bell-tower ringing eight. Tissaia tuts,

“I’ve worked you too hard. You should have said something.” She ushers the girl to sit in an armchair by the fire. “You’ll have missed dinner in the hall, I’ll get the kitchens to send something up.”

Tissaia pulls a bell-rope and sits in the other armchair, stretching her feet to the fire. She takes a pipe from a pocket in her gown and fills it with the tobacco blend she uses. No one is entirely certain what goes into the rectoress’ pipe but it is a secret widely coveted by anyone lucky enough to sample it. When the bowl is full and tamped down, Tissaia places the bit in her teeth and lights it with a flick of her fingers, taking a long drag and exhaling with a satisfied hum.

“Why do you torment your students?”

Tissaia arches her eyebrows, “I see you’re not too tired to be impertinent.”

Isàna flushes but soldiers on, “I’ve seen you be gentle and caring, like when you fixed my ankle. The others wouldn’t believe me. They’re terrified of you. Or hate you.”

There is a knock at the door which saves Isàna from a reprimand and a servant brings in a tray of sandwiches and fruit. Tissaia gestures for the girl to eat and pours herself a glass of wine. She takes a sip then speaks,

“Do you know how diamonds are formed?” she does not wait for an answer, “They are coal to begin with. Then they are subjected to immense heat and pressure. When they have endured all that is necessary, they are transformed into shining jewels.”

She reaches for an apple and begins to peel it in one long strip with a small knife.

“Every girl I teach is coal when she comes to me. I push them, hard, I find their weaknesses and use it to break them open. I show them that weakness so that they may recognise it and not fall victim to it. For some it is fear, conceit, a physical deformity. Others it is a gentle nature or a desire to be loved.”

She divides the apple into equal segments, each one uniform. “Some girls break, it is true. But the others are made stronger than they ever would have been.”

She hands a slice to Isàna who takes it cautiously and asks, “And those who do break, those who can’t be diamonds?”

Tissaia tosses the curlicue of peel into the fire, “Coal may not be pretty, but it has its uses.” Yennefer shudders, wondering if the girl knows about the eels. Isàna juts out her chin defiantly,

“Go on then. What’s my weakness?”

Tissaia grips her chin in her thumb and forefinger, analysing her with piercing eyes,

“You choose to believe the best of others, rather than expect the worst. And one day, it will kill you.”

Isàna blinks several times, unsure how to respond but Tissaia releases her chin, pushing gently away. “To bed with you.”

Isàna nods and stands, “Goodnight, Rectoress.”

Tissaia waves her hand at her desk, “And take that fiddle with you, just don’t let me catch you with it during lesson hours again.”

Isàna grins and presses a quick peck to Tissaia’s cheek, before scooping up the instrument lovingly and hurrying out the door. It was a chaste, girlish kiss given in gratitude and Tissaia presses her fingers to her cheek, uncertain why it has made her sad. She sits down again, staring into the fire, stroking her pendant and absentmindedly rolling another apple, whole and unskinned, in her palm with delicate precision. 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback exploring how, for someone who must keep their emotions in check to avoid endangering themselves and others, physical desire must be difficult to navigate. Note: Isàna is an adult by the time any intimacy occurs.

The study ripples and settles back to the same location but several years have passed. Isàna is older, her plump girlish figure now a toned, lithe body with full breasts and strong shoulders. Her hair is clipped short at her neck and sides, a longer sideswept fringe hanging over her forehead. She is stood in front a fiery image floating in the air, concentrating. Yennefer realises she’s taken the fire from the grate and has manipulated it into a little dragon with outstretched wings, stable apart from the hot air quivering round it. Tissaia is watching with fascination, her quill suspended mid-air, all notetaking forgotten. Yennefer cannot help a stab of jealousy at the approval on the rectoress’ face. The dragon breathes fire and Isàna grins, the dip in focus nearly making her drop the flames on the rug.

“Concentrate!” Tissaia commands, her own hand now poised to step in if things become dangerous. Sweat beading on her forehead and blood trickling from her nose, Isàna releases the flames into a raging sphere and wrestles them back to the grate. They are not keen to obey but at last subside and reattach themselves to the logs. Isàna’s knees buckle and Tissaia manoeuvres her to sit on the edge of her desk.

“I’ll just fetch a washcloth. You won’t keel over if I step away?”

Isàna shakes her head, too spent to speak. Tissaia returns, wipes the blood from her face, then presses her own fingertips against Isàna’s burning ones. She sends a cooling pulse through her fingers and Isàna sighs in gratitude,

“You’re magnificent, you know that?”

“I shall be forced to forgive you almost burning my expensive rug if you continue to flatter me so.” Tissaia is flippant but Isàna replies earnestly,

“Magnificent. Breath-taking. Radiant.”

“Exaggeration does not suit you; you don’t have the cunning to make it ring true.”

Isàna links their fingertips, “Then it is fortunate I am speaking honestly.”

“Stop it. Enough of this game.” Tissaia’s voice quivers and her eyes flicker up to Isàna’s face. The younger woman draws their joined hands up and presses her lips to the rectoress’ knuckles.

“ _Tissaia.”_

The word ghosts across her hands and makes Tissaia’s breath hitch. Her heart is racing, and she can feel the Chaos plucking at it. Of their own volition, her fingers rest against Isàna’s mouth. Tissaia pulls at her lower lip with her thumb and runs it along the inside edge making Isàna’s eyes flutter. The older woman moves her hands to cup the sides of Isàna’s neck, her wet thumb resting in the hollow at the base of her throat. Isàna leans forward but Tissaia tightens her grip on her neck and holds her back. Her mouth hovering over Isàna’s she murmurs,

“Gods, help me” then brushes Isàna’s lips with her own. Isàna lets out a helpless moan and lifts her hands to grip Tissaia’s waist, pulling her so close she is forced to arch against the desk to keep her balance. She pulls away to place hot open-mouthed kisses under Tissaia’s jaw, down her neck. Tissaia’s head falls back, her hands sinking into the thick blonde fringe and gripping tightly. The air around them has begun to throb with energy. She should stop this, but she cannot, she does not want to. Isàna unfastens the top clasp on the front of her gown, exposing only the barest hint of collarbone but it is suddenly too much. Tissaia shudders, lets out a cry and throws Isàna away, her hands still gripping her hair. The younger mage’s head snaps back with the force and she is lifted backwards off the desk, hits the arched window and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor. Tissaia cannot name whatever spell she has unwittingly used. She only knows she has employed more than physical force to send the woman hurtling back like that. Dismay and shame fill her – to have lost control so spectacularly! Isàna groans and stands, trying to speak but Tissaia cuts her off,

“Get out!”

Isàna reaches for Tissaia, “You’re shaking...”

Tissaia recoils, raises her palm threateningly, “Don’t _touch_ me! Get out!”

Tears fill the younger woman’s eyes and she rushes out as quickly as her bruised body will allow. Tissaia clutches at her solar plexus, trying to regain control of her breathing, to make the Chaos stop rattling her ribs. This cannot be allowed to repeat itself. She firmly adjusts the pins in her hair, pushing hard enough to prick her scalp and stares into the fire. Then, the flames recede into the distance as Yennefer is withdrawn from the memory, pulled back to the present.

* * *

Yennefer rubs her eyes and looks up at Tissaia, “Ethically ambiguous experiments and kissing a student. _That’s_ your big secret?”

“Don’t be glib – I could feel you getting angry. There’s more to show you but you were getting restless.”

“You’d fidget too if you’d spent that long in this position. My neck is killing me.” To prove her point Yennefer twists it eliciting a loud click. Tissaia rubs it soothingly,

“We can stop if you want.”

Yennefer turns to face her sharply “Oh no you don’t. I was promised an explanation tonight and I’m getting it.” She stands and walks through to the middle of the room, under the glass dome. Tissaia hears dragging and follows her perturbed,

“What _are_ you doing?”

Yennefer does not reply, only finishes arranging the sofa so that is directly under the dome and plumps the cushions. She waves her hand and the dress she’d been wearing transforms into a white silky robe just brushing the tops of her thighs. Then she tilts her head at Tissaia and pats the sofa. It is long enough for them both to lie stretched out, their heads next to each other in the middle and their feet at opposite ends.

“Much comfier.” Yennefer sounds pleased with herself and nestles her nose against Tissaia’s temple. “Come on then, shock me.” Tissaia watches the sky through the dome and lays her palm against Yennefer’s cheek. The stars above them become the pinpricks of light on the lake’s surface and together, they return to what was once forgotten.

* * *

Tissaia is standing on the overhanging balcony of the ruined tower, the sea beneath. Through the archway, Isàna arrives out of breath. She’s been chasing after Tissaia and they argue, gesturing angrily. Yennefer is too far away and the wind too loud to make out what they’re saying. She steps closer until she can hear them,

“You don’t know it will work; I won’t let you risk it.” Tissaia is so angry her eyes are sparking. Isàna rakes her hand through her fringe in exasperation,

“We should at least try! Tissaia, whatever happens it can’t be worse than this, than what we have now. I’m going mad wanting you.”

“Then you must control yourself. As must I.”

Isàna pulls off her gloves and holds out a hand, Tissaia recoils and pleads, her voice cracking,

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

“You won’t. I will Anchor us. Tissaia, let yourself feel!”

Tissaia removes her gloves and reaches out tentatively, their fingers brush and the air crackles. She takes a deep breath and presses her hand flat against Isàna’s. The Chaos rushes in, eagerly snapping at her opening heart and she has to shut her eyes against the torrent of it. Rather than withdrawing as she usually does when it begins to tug at her, Tissaia lets it rage through her and waits for disaster to strike. But it flows down through her palm and Isàna absorbs it, her pupils dilating but her hand remaining steady. Tissaia’s ribs are opened, her heart is beating fast and her abdomen aches with unsuppressed desire, but she can no longer hear the evil whispering, threatening destruction. Her eyes open and she sees Isàna smiling. They lean in towards one another, trembling from the magical ecstasy and the physical desire. Their lips press together, and the air pulsates, Yennefer can feel her scalp prickle just at the memory of the swirling energy. As their kiss deepens, they blur and…

…Yennefer is back on the sofa, the stars above her, Tissaia’s heart beating so loudly she can feel it reverberating against her shoulder.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty Tissaia/Yennefer smut with a bit of dialogue beforehand but mostly (hopefully tasteful!) smut.

“You can’t stop there!” Yennefer protests, sitting upright. The corners of Tissaia’s mouth twitch upwards but she replies firmly,

“The rest of that evening is not for you to see.”

Yennefer playfully shoves her shoulder, “You’re such a spoilsport!” She wriggles her eyebrows suggestively, “At least tell me, was it good?”

Tissaia sits up and does not say anything, only grins wolfishly and throws Yennefer such a dark, sultry look through her eyelashes that Yennefer’s throat goes dry. She slides her hand up Tissaia’s thigh and leans in, almost nose to nose, teasing,

“Tissaia de Vries, you dark horse. I always imagined you as rather frigid.”

She had expected to disconcert the woman, but Tissaia does not back away. Only arches an eyebrow, flicks her eyes down to Yennefer’s hand. Returns her gaze to her face, places an index finger under her chin and murmurs against Yennefer’s lips,

“You _have_ imagined me then?”

Yennefer’s mind goes blank with desire and it must show on her face because Tissaia smirks and stands, retrieving the decanter. Yennefer manages to reconnect her brain to her mouth and asks the question that has been bothering her,

“Is being an Anchor an innate ability?”

Tissaia pours herself a glass, answering as she does so,

“There are those who possess a predisposition towards it. But it could be learnt, to an extent.”

“Why don’t you teach it here? I watched you give in to your emotions on that balcony, but nothing happened. You were...Anchored. Think of the girls who could be saved if they had that option!”

“Anchoring is _not_ a remedy for shoddy work and a lack of self-will! It is a complex process requiring a great deal of skill from both mages involved. Not only that, the Anchor must be entirely willing to suffer for the other mage’s sake. Can you imagine any novice being able to grasp that concept, let alone execute it?”

“No but-“

“It is dangerous not only because it is difficult to master but because it enables immense power, more than should be possible for one person to wield safely. Anchoring should only be used as a last resort, in emergencies.”

Tissaia has taken on a lecturing tone and Yennefer bristles,

“Oh yes, I’m sure your orgasm was an emergency! How long had it been since your last one? Months? Years?”

Tissaia goes white with rage, except for two crimson slashes of embarrassment high on her cheeks. Yennefer stands and paces angrily up and down,

“You say we survived Sodden because of my skill, my control?”

Tissaia nods curtly and Yennefer laughs bitterly, raking her hand through her hair. Tissaia clasps her hands at her waist,

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

Yennefer throws a vicious glance at her, still pacing, “Why? Because I’m power-hungry and individualistic?”

Tissaia’s response is cold, “Well you’ve never been one to accept help before.”

“Fuck you!” Yennefer spits it out and Tissaia flares her nostrils,

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset but I suggest-“

She gets no further as Yennefer cuts her off, rounding sharply to face her, “I thought you might have Anchored me! At Sodden. I thought that’s what this trip down memory lane was about.”

She laughs grimly and drops to sit on the sofa, head in her hands,

“What a fool! I thought maybe, just maybe, I mattered enough for you to risk the process. That I was important to you. But no, you sent me up there to die and that was that.”

There is a horrible silence after Yennefer’s outburst and she stares at the floor, trying to stop the angry tears pooling at her eyelashes. She sees Tissaia’s feet come into her line of vision and the older woman sighs,

“Oh, piglet.”

It’s been years since she last called her that and the sting seems to have faded from it. Tissaia cups her chin and forces her eyes up. When she speaks her voice is warm, deep, and husky, like a honeyed bourbon,

“If there is anyone in this world I would suffer for, it is you. But you and I could never be Anchors, my dear. We are the Storm.”

She bends her head and captures Yennefer’s lips with her own, kissing her with a sweet, bruising urgency. Her hands weave into raven curls and pull so that Yennefer has to tilt her face up. Tissaia licks into her mouth and Yennefer groans at the heat of her, the taste of wine on her tongue and the rosemary on her skin. Slipping her calloused palms under the hem of Tissaia’s dressing gown, Yennefer glides up her thighs and tugs on her hips bringing Tissaia closer to stand between her legs. Tissaia pulls on her own sash in one long move, untying it so the robe falls open, her belly and breasts exposed, shafts of moonlight playing across them. Yennefer sighs and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts while a hand slips down from her hips to cup Tissaia between her legs. Her thick, springy curls are already damp and the scent of her drifts up, making Yennefer giddy. Tissaia’s head falls back and her hands stroke through Yennefer’s hair, nails grazing her scalp. As Yennefer tugs on a nipple with her teeth, Tissaia lets out a little moan which turns into a gasp as Yennefer bites down on her areola and sucks hard enough to bruise. The arch-mage pulls Yennefer away from her chest and glares down at her, breathing heavily. She clenches her fists in Yennefer’s hair, trying to make her kneel but Yennefer has other plans. She grips Tissaia’s wrists, wrapping her fingers round them with a delicate precision, and forces them away from her hair. Then, she stands and spins Tissaia so her back is pressed against Yennefer’s front, her wrists still trapped with a sweet ferocity. She releases them to trace her palms up Tissaia’s arms, to the collar of her gown, and slowly pulls the fabric off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Now completely bare, Tissaia tries to turn to face Yennefer but is stopped by nails digging into her shoulders, the crescent indentations soothed with a kiss as Yennefer undoes her own robe. The white silk brushes against the back of Tissaia’s thighs as it falls to the ground between them and she shivers. But then Yennefer presses herself fully against Tissaia, hot skin melding with her own and she is too inflamed to feel cold. Yennefer burns her, or so it seems to Tissaia. Her caramel arms snaking round to cup her chest with searing palms, her breasts pressed against her back hot and firm, her mouth placing scalding kisses down her neck, her thighs scorching as they slide in between Tissaia’s. Yennefer is everywhere all at once and she is fire, blazing and torrid, turning Tissaia’s skin liquid and glowing like molten steel.

As Yennefer fondles her, claims her with mouth and hands, she is eager, insistent. To help keep her balance against the onslaught of Yennefer’s conquest, Tissaia reaches out a hand to the nearest column and rests against it. Yennefer notices and decides this is excellent use of the architecture, pushing Tissaia towards the column and spinning her again so that her back is against the glossy black granite. She kneels, stroking Tissaia’s navel with a thumb and looking up at her, asking permission. Tissaia nods and Yennefer hooks one of her pale legs over her shoulder, braces her palms against Tissaia’s rear and bends her head to her folds. Her first kiss pressed to the soft curls makes Tissaia sigh and grip the column behind her tighter. A delicious shudder goes through her entire body and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Yennefer continues to kiss and lick her, finding her nub with her lips and flicking it lightly with her tongue. All the while her fingers knead the hot flesh of her bottom, encouraging her to rock against her mouth. Biting her lower lip and closing her eyes, Tissaia moans low in her throat. Then as Yennefer’s tongue finds her entrance and pushes into her centre, Tissaia’s eyes fly open and she lets out a short cry.

Her thighs are trembling, and she has slid further down the column so Yennefer takes pity and scoops her up in her arms, wrapping her legs round her waist. She crosses to the sofa and lays Tissaia down on it, leaning on her thighs to keep them open when she tries to hide from Yennefer’s gaze. Settling herself, she returns her mouth to Tissaia’s core fastening her lips round the sensitive nub and sucking, lightly at first but building in pressure until Tissaia is whimpering. Easing her lips a little, Yennefer slips two fingers into Tissaia, the slick inner muscles jumping at her touch. Tissaia surrounds her, fills all her senses and it is heaven. The taste of her, the scent of her sweat and that darker, musk scent, the way her thighs are tensing against Yennefer’s ears, soft skin contrasting with the rake of her nails on Yennefer’s scalp. The warm, dark cocoon of her legs, the velvety folds and soft curls are all she can see but rather than making her claustrophobic, Yennefer feels safe. When the rectoress arches her hips, Yennefer groans at the feeling of Tissaia filling her mouth, hot and pulsating, the groans reverberating against her only driving her higher.

Tissaia stiffens and Yennefer waits for her to peak, but it doesn’t happen. She stays rigid, no longer moaning or sighing, only a harsh panting coming from her mouth. Yennefer looks up and sees her clenching the cushions with white-knuckled hands, frowning and face turned into the sofa-back. She reaches out with her thoughts but is denied entry, Tissaia’s mind slamming shut. Yennefer crawls up her body to face her and strokes Tissaia’s jaw, trying to reach her behind the wall of restraint that has been thrown up.

_Tissaia, please…_

Tissaia shakes her head, still keeping her face turned away, “I can’t! It’s too dangerous, I can feel it trying to break me open, trying to take over.”

“You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Yennefer caresses her face, runs a thumb over the back of her hand in little circles, gently nuzzles her neck. Tissaia is adrift inside, the Chaos battering at her defences which have softened in the heat of Yennefer’s passion. She _wants_ this, she wants Yennefer inside her, she wants to let go and have the pleasure flood through her but if she opens the gates, there will be no stopping whatever comes next. And that frightens her. She has shut her eyes against the torrent rushing through her but feels Yennefer gently turn her head to face her, feels her thoughts insist,

_Look at me._

Tissaia opens her eyes and sees violet, blazing with love and care, deep enough to fall into. And so, Tissaia makes those eyes her beacon and lets her lost and wandering soul steer towards them through the Chaos. She rolls their bodies, so she is straddling Yennefer, her wetness slick against her navel, cupping the younger woman’s face in both hands and leans down to kiss her. Slow, languid kisses, her tongue tracing under Yennefer’s upper lip, teeth tugging lightly on her bottom one. She can taste herself in Yennefer’s mouth and is surprised at the sweetness. Deciding she wants more of it she takes Yennefer’s hand still damp from earlier and sucks the fingers clean, one by one. Yennefer’s eyes have darkened, and her chest rises and falls erratically. Tissaia guides Yennefer’s hand down between them for the younger woman to touch herself, encouraging her with her own hand on top. Her raven curls spread over the cushions and Tissaia winds the glossy tresses round the fingers of her other hand, lilac and gooseberries drifting up. Yennefer’s hips buck and the tendons in her neck strain as she arches her head back, sweat pooling in the notch above her collarbones. Tissaia bends and licks it away, the salt giving way to a sweetness that reminds her of maple syrup as she sucks on the skin, marking it as her own. Yennefer believes Tissaia strong enough to give in to her emotions safely and now, with Yennefer writhing beneath her, her beautiful burnt palm clutching at a pale thigh and her violet eyes locked with her own – Tissaia finally believes it too. She pulls Yennefer’s hand away from its work at Yennefer’s core and presses it between her own legs, the nimble fingers slipping inside her as Tissaia moans wanton and desperate. Not wanting to neglect Yennefer’s pleasure she rubs her in torturously slow circles, only sliding inside when Yennefer begs her to,

“Tissaia, please, I want you inside me!”

She obliges and groans, whispering to Yennefer “You do not know how I have dreamt of this. Feeling you around my fingers like this. I can feel your heartbeat, here under my fingertips.”

Yennefer growls possessively and sits up, still flexing her fingers inside Tissaia, wrapping her legs round her waist. Supporting her torso with her free arm, her hand splayed against Tissaia’s shoulder blades. Tissaia looks down at her and whispers hoarsely,

“Gods, you’re beautiful!”

And, pleasuring this woman above her, riding her deft fingers in return, her green eyes brimming with passion and tenderness – Yennefer finally believes it, she is beautiful, and she is loved. She latches onto Tissaia’s breast, moaning at the creamy roundness of it filling her mouth as they strain against one another, rocking, flying higher, higher together. Tissaia’s mouth is busy breathing encouragements and endearments into Yennefer’s ear,

“Yes, there, just there, oh my dear, my darling girl!”

The bottles on the alchemy table have begun to rattle as the air in the room hums and throbs, energy swirling round the pair. The eagles’ lanterns which have been dark start to flicker, the candles sparking and the fire in the grate starts to crackle. Tissaia hears the Chaos whispering but she refuses to listen, keeps her ribs open and her heart thumping, lets herself float up and up on the pleasure. Taking down the final barrier she seeks Yennefer’s mind with her own and when their thoughts touch, it is fireworks. She repeats Yennefer’s earlier command,

_Look at me!_

Yennefer raises her head from her breast and locks her eyes with Tissaia who is letting out little, desperate cries, breathless with need. Yennefer smiles, properly smiles, and whispers,

_Let go, my love. Let go!_

Tissaia’s head snaps back and she lets out a cry that sounds like it has waited years to be released. Her throat is taught, her pulse hammering under the skin, her lips parted and her body undulating with waves of pleasure. Her peak brings Yennefer to hers simultaneously and as they cry out in unison, the lanterns flare, the fire roars and the study is flooded with light, the glass panes in the dome above them vibrating with the shock of energy shooting upwards from their ecstatic bodies. The sky comes crashing down round her ears but Tissaia no longer cares, Yennefer is holding her, and the Chaos cannot touch her. After all, _they_ are the Storm.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer finds 'The Poisoned Source' and confronts Tissaia. Tissaia shows her one last flashback, finally revealing her secret.   
> Warning: mentions miscarriage and racial cleansing, depicts a death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text for 'The Poisoned Source' is from Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski. The full extract can be read here: https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/The_Poisoned_Source 
> 
> This one is rather heavy going but there will be better times to come in the final chapter!

Yennefer wakens gradually, her eyelids fluttering open slowly. Through the dome above her she sees the sky still dark and hears the pattering of rain against the glass. Craning her neck, she sees sparkling on the arched windows behind Tissaia’s desk, a flaming torch on the wall outside lighting up the droplets. The room is cold, but it is gloriously warm and soft under the furs on the sofa, Tissaia’s small body generating a surprising amount of heat. She is curled up against Yennefer, her cheek resting on her chest, a thigh draped over her hips. Yennefer stretches and Tissaia paws at her making snuffling noises, a little pout on her face. Yennefer has to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

Who’d have thought it? Tissaia de Vries is a snuggler. 

Her small hands are uncannily strong, and Yennefer has to contort into a very odd shape before she is free of the woman’s embrace. She’d gladly have stayed put but her bladder is uncomfortably full, so she borrows Tissaia’s dressing gown and tiptoes away to relieve herself. Returning to the study she stirs the ashes in the grate vainly in search of embers to rekindle. It is tempting to just conjure a fire, but she knows Tissaia would disapprove of not doing things properly so, she lays some logs and kindling. She draws the line at using the strike flint however and snaps her fingers to produce a small flame. When the fire takes, she sighs, warming her chilled hands. The lanterns round the sofa have gone out so she lights one that she may watch Tissaia sleep. Yennefer is too wide awake now to settle and wanders over to the windows, looking out at the rain lashing the waves. She briefly wonders if their earlier passion is responsible for it, but it doesn’t feel magically generated which she supposes is a good thing. It would be rather inconvenient if every time they make love, they must issue an advance weather warning. Smiling wryly to herself, her eyes land on a manuscript on the desk, her attention drawn to it because it is so unlike Tissaia to leave anything untidily out of place. It is some sort of treatise, unfinished, the quill lying beside as though Tissaia was mid-writing when disturbed. Yennefer scans the title curiously, _The Poisoned Source_ , and flicks through the neat paragraphs. As she reads, her blood runs cold and when she reaches the last sentences, she must grip the edge of the desk to remain upright.

“ _I ask most emphatically: each one of us must decide what she wants to be – a wizard or a mother. I demand all apprentices be sterilised. Without exception._ ”

It is not Giltine or the Brotherhood who require an adept’s womb be removed before Ascending. It is Tissaia. Tissaia who denies her the choice, who determines whether a girl will be an eel, or have her ovaries ripped out, so that she may become sufficiently beautiful to present to a King. The rage coursing through Yennefer shatters the hourglass on the desk, the white sand spilling across the awful words, written so elegantly in such indelible ink. The crash wakes Tissaia who sits up, alarmed, clutching a fur to her chest.

“Yennefer?” she calls out, rubbing her eyes blearily.

She spots Yennefer at her desk and smiles but freezes when she sees the expression on her face. Yennefer advances, the manuscript page clenched in her fist. She stops a few paces away from Tissaia,

“It’s _you_? You who condones sterilisation? It’s not _required_ for Enchantment is it?”

Realisation dawns on Tissaia’s face and she squares her shoulders, “There is always a cost.”

“But it doesn’t _have_ to be our wombs, does it? You make us believe there is no other way, but the price _could_ be something else!” Yennefer throws the paper at Tissaia’s feet, her voice choking. Tissaia’s eyes flicker downwards distracted by the mess, she hates crumpled paper. It is this distraction that makes her say her next words so offhandedly,

“It seemed a neat solution. The cost of Enchantment met and the prevention of offspring that will, inevitably, suffer for the diluted power in its blood.”

Yennefer comes closer, pleading for Tissaia to deny it, “I could believe it of the Chapter, of Stregebor but you?”

Tissaia aches at Yennefer’s anguish but she will not lie, “I do not regret it, Yennefer. I would do the same now. It is the right choice, the only choice, when presented with the facts.”

Yennefer screams in anger and claws at Tissaia’s face who restrains her,

“You bitch! You manipulate your students, deciding every part of their fate. Coal for your fire, diamonds to grace your fingers, conduits for your Chaos. And you don’t care for them, whatever lies you spin for yourself; you didn’t look twice at Isàna until you realised what she was. And then you used her, just like you use all of us. You _cultivate_ us – like your fucking flowers! And, when you ordain it, when it suits your purpose – we are sent to die!”

Yennefer manages to break free of Tissaia’s grip and slaps her hard across the face, a flat-palmed full-forced blow cracking across her cheek. It raises a red welt immediately but Tissaia refuses to acknowledge it by clutching at it. Instead, she grabs Yennefer by her temples and says in a wretched voice,

“ _This_ is what I needed to show you, what you should have known before I let you in.”

The impact of Tissaia’s mind forcing itself into her own makes Yennefer dizzy. This memory does not trickle in with ripples but explodes in a burst of light, it feels like someone has headbutted her right between the eyes.

Isàna is sat in the window ledge of the study, playing her fiddle, a gentle sorrowful tune full of long bows and trembling vibrato. She is unaware of Tissaia watching her from the doorway, leaning her head against the frame and clutching her pendant so hard the geometric design is imprinted on her palm. When the song ends, Tissaia steps into the room and does not return Isàna’s smile of greeting. The blonde jumps down from her perch,

“What’s wrong?”

“The Chapter have agreed to send you as their envoy to Vengerberg. You leave tonight.”

“But that’s good news!”

Tissaia crosses to her and grips her arms, “Listen to me! You cannot, must not go. There is nothing to be done for the elves. It will end in a pogrom and you will be caught in the middle.”

“I have to try. If there is even a chance of resolving negotiations peacefully. I cannot believe everyone on the Council is willing to stand by as hundreds are slaughtered.”

“They are already calling it The Great Cleansing. Temeria, Redania, Kaedwen, Cintra – all have annihilated their elven population. Aedirn is next and you cannot stop it.”

“Why would the Chapter send me if it’s hopeless?”

“They believe the murder of an envoy will give them leverage in negotiations with the Kingdoms. You are their bargaining chip. You are considered ‘insignificant talent’, of more use to them dead than alive.”

Isàna steps out of Tissaia’s grip, “You agreed with their assessment?”

Tissaia’s eyes flick away, her jaw jumps, “I have never told them of your gift. What should I have said? Admitted that I have kept you for myself? That in the wrong hands you could bring this world to its knees?”

Isàna holds up Tissaia’s palms, “And your hands are the right ones?”

Tissaia reaches to cup Isàna’s face, her voice breaking, “You believed it once.”

Isàna sighs and presses a kiss to Tissaia’s wrist, “I believe it still. But I must go.”

Tissaia shakes her a little, “Why? Why _must_ you?”

“Because if they are not stopped, one day it will be us they come for. We mages are not so far from elves in the eyes of these madmen.” Isàna cups Tissaia’s jaw, her thumb brushing her lips, “And because you were right all those years ago – I refuse to expect the worst of people, I cannot believe there is no hope.”

“And one day, it will kill you.” Tissaia’s eyes close and she turns away from Isàna, “Go then. I will not stop you.”

Isàna reaches for her but Tissaia raises her palm, “Leave me.” Isàna grabs her shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek, Tissaia refusing to turn her mouth towards her, her fingers plucking at Isàna’s forearms to escape her. “There is nothing more to be said, girl. Leave.”

Isàna drops her arms and her face crumples. She lays her fiddle on the desk, resting her fingers on it gently. Looks at Tissaia who refuses to meet her eyes, turning her back to stare out the window.

“Tissaia…”

The rectoress only squares her shoulders and strokes her pendant, Isàna removes her hand from the fiddle and leaves.

Time passes and Tissaia is sat at the desk in the dark, plucking a single string on the fiddle over and over, her shoulders slumped and her cuffs uneven. Yennefer feels the quiver of a telepathic signal and hears the memory of a message sent nearly a hundred years ago.

_Tissaia? Tissaia, I need you._

Tissaia stands, looking dazed but she straightens her appearance and conjures a portal, stepping through it. Yennefer follows her, once again grateful that she does not have to experience the sensations that would occur were this the real world.

Tissaia had always thought bards exaggerating when they sang of streets running with blood but as she steps onto the cobblestones of a Vengerberg square, her boots slip on a slick patch that is a dark crimson. There are bodies scattered and buildings on fire, the air acrid with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. It is quiet, too quiet and she moves cautiously. She finds Isàna propped up against a fountain, her hand pressed against a gash in her neck, blood welling between her fingers and her skin already cold to the touch.

Isàna groans, “You came! I tried to stop them, there were too many, too angry.”

Tissaia rips at her gown, pressing the wad of fabric against her neck, “Of course, I came! You stupid, brave girl – look at the mess you’re in!”

Isàna grimaces through split lips, “I can’t tell if you’re angry or proud of me.”

“Neither can I! Now, be still.” She begins to chant but Isàna interrupts her,

“Hush. It’s no use.” Tissaia continues and Isàna grabs her hand, “Stop it! Don’t exhaust yourself. I know when my life is leaking through my fingers, as do you.”

“I won’t allow it!”

Isàna strokes her cheek, “It’s not your decision to make, Rectoress. Even you cannot control things this time.” Her voice is fading and Tissaia cradles her,

“No! You do not leave me; you are part of me!”

She cannot speak but her thoughts urge Tissaia,

_Then make yourself a promise. The next person you meet whom the world has given up on – choose to believe in them. See what they **could** be, not what the world has made them. Believe the best rather than expect the worst. Do this and I will still be with you._

She rests her head against Tissaia’s shoulder, a breath rattles in her chest, she goes rigid, then falls limp in Tissaia’s arms. An anguished cry rips from Tissaia, a nearby blaze roaring with renewed vigour as her pain fuels the flames. Across the cobblestones, a black-haired woman is huddled over the body of a man, wailing. Her pregnancy is only just starting to show, the swell of her belly a gentle curve. Tissaia senses the miscarriage beginning, the placenta loosening, the foetus starting to slip. It would seem even Mother Nature is giving up on this one. The arch-mage presses a kiss to Isàna’s forehead and whispers,

“I promise.”

Then, she stands and runs to the woman, pressing her hand against her belly, securing the placenta, calming the child’s distress. Whatever else may be said of her, Tissaia de Vries keeps her promises. She notices the man is in fact a half-elf, his ears pointed and his teeth too small. An angry hubbub in the distance drifts towards them and Tissaia decides it is time to leave if they are to survive. She pulls at the woman who howls and refuses to leave the corpse. Tissaia swears and looks round desperately – she spots a wagon with its wheels still intact and manages to stun a horse clattering past them in a panic. It calms under the enchantment and allows itself to be hitched. Tissaia hands the woman up onto the bench and levitates the elf’s body into the back, next to some sacks of potatoes. As she settles him more securely against the boards of the wagon, his eyelids fall open and she sees his eyes are a striking shade of blue, almost violet. Retrieving Isàna, Tissaia sees an armed mob appear at the top of the street and leaps into the wagon, snapping the reins, driving the horse mercilessly towards the city gates.

When at last, they are clear of the walls and can no longer hear the screaming and flames, she turns to the woman.

“Is there somewhere you can go?”

“My husband.”

“Is dead.” Tissaia replies tiredly.

The woman’s gaze trembles over the elf, “He’s not my husband.”

“I see. Where then?”

The woman points to a cluster of houses in the distance and Tissaia urges the horse on again. They pull up into a farmyard, pigs rooting around in the muck, a ramshackle house with a surly looking man standing in the doorway. The woman turns to Tissaia,

“Will you take him? Will you bury him? Please?”

Tissaia nods and watches as the woman limps to her husband, clutching her belly and the child that is almost certainly not his. The door slams shut and Tissaia is left in the cold, two corpses and a horse her only company, her heart bruised so badly every beat of it hurts. She does not know it, but she will have reason to return to this pigpen on the outskirts of Venerberg. Fourteen years from now she will pay four marks for a fierce, frightened girl with raven hair and violet eyes. And her promise to believe the best of her will take a lifetime to keep. The clip-clop of the horse fades as the roofs of Vengerberg blur and Yennefer’s mind is released from Tissaia’s.

Yennefer falls from Tissaia’s grip, sprawling backwards on the floor and sits up, her breathing frantic and her mind reeling. She stares at Tissaia who has silent tears trickling down her cheeks, her hands still outstretched from holding the younger woman. And because it is Yennefer and she is frightened, she runs. Out the door, her bare feet slapping on the stones and her heart pounding. And all Tissaia can do, like she has always done, is swallow her grief and hope that Yennefer comes back to her. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia and Yennefer reconcile.

As is often the case after a rainstorm at night, the dawn is achingly beautiful. Rosy and clear, the world washed clean. The long grass is still beaded with droplets, dampening her skirts as Tissaia walks towards the ruined tower at the far end of the island. Mist curls round the headland and it is chilly, even with her fur-trimmed cloak. A fresh, sea-salt smell fills the air, sweetened with the gorse bushes which have bloomed and the clover that crushes under her boots. By the time she reaches the tower she has warmed with exertion and unclasps her cloak. She folds it meticulously on the low stone bench at the base of the tower, removes her gloves and takes a rough cotton apron from the satchel she has with her. She slips the neck round her high collar and fastens the ties round her waist in a neat double bow, rolls up her sleeves and turns her attention to the small garden that now flourishes here. Gorse, sea-holly, and tiny daisies grow wild but other plants have been coaxed into blooming on the windswept cliff-top; catmint and red valerian, even a spray of white rugosa roses. The beds need weeding and on her knees with a small trowel, Tissaia begins to tackle them. It is here Yennefer finds her, just as the sun has risen high enough to burn away the mist and dew, warming the air.

She is still wearing Tissaia’s dressing gown, the hem muddy and her bare feet are stiff with cold. Tissaia sees her and stands, brushing the earth from her palms and leading her gently to sit on the bench. She tuts and draws the neck of the dressing gown tighter, wraps her own cloak round Yennefer’s shoulders. Then she hitches up her skirts and kneels in front of her. Lifts her cold feet and lays them in her lap, rubbing with her palms to warm them.

“There’s a spell for that, you know?” Yennefer’s voice is dull, lifeless but she has not withdrawn from her touch which Tissaia takes as an encouraging sign.

“I want to do it myself.”

Yennefer does not respond and Tissaia lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again, “You found me then? I wasn’t sure if you’d think to look here.”

“I wasn’t looking for you. I needed to get away from it all, this seemed the furthest away I could get without a portal.” She glares pointedly at Tissaia who nods,

“The barriers were activated this morning. With the Ball tonight and the Conclave tomorrow, the usual security measures are in place. No teleportation, no combat spells.”

Yennefer scowls, “So, I’m stuck here. Gods! I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to escape this place, to be free of it. To be free of you! And now it turns out I’m only alive because you decided to grace a peasant woman with your assistance. My life was literally in your hands.”

Tissaia looks up, “And are my hands so dreadful to be in?”

Yennefer’s voice regains some of its usual bite, “No, don’t you dare. That might have worked on Isàna, but it won’t with me. Just because you hold us gently does not mean we are not captive.”

Tissaia's jaw jumps but she stands, turning to the flower beds. She holds out the trowel to Yennefer and tilts her head,

“Come. Help me finish.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes but decides it might feel good to hack at something so grabs it from her and kneels as far from Tissaia as possible. They work in silence for some minutes until Yennefer mutters,

“I’m still angry at you. Just so you know.”

“I can always tell when you are, trust me.” Tissaia says it mildly but her tone is belied by the vigour with which she uproots a dandelion. “What I’m never sure of is why?”

Yennefer scoffs disbelievingly and slices vehemently at a weed. Tissaia leans back on her heels, brushes a wisp of hair from her face, smearing dirt on it. Yennefer doesn’t point it out because the idea of knowing something Tissaia doesn’t gives her too much satisfaction.

“I ask you again – how did we get this way? I have only ever done what I thought right, what my conscience told me was necessary. In the end that is all any of us can do. And I have never given up on you, even when all I wanted to do was shake you until your teeth rattled.”

“Only because you promised your dead lover that you wouldn’t. Only out of some twisted sense of duty, hoping for what? Absolution?”

“Is that truly what you think? Even after how it felt to make love last night?” Tissaia stands and crosses to her,

“Did you know the fiddler at Sodden had lost his instrument fleeing the fighting and I gave him Isàna’s? It was the first time I had heard it played since she died. And do you know the only thing I could think about?” Yennefer shrugs moodily and Tissaia continues, “How much I wanted to make you smile. Everything that fiddle meant to me, everything it represented, and I only had thought for you.”

She kneels beside Yennefer, stilling her angry hands with her own. The damp cool earth at odds with the warmth of their skin, the tingling of Chaos dancing between their fingers.

“Yennefer, I couldn’t give up on you now if my life depended on it. I love you.”

Yennefer stares at her, conflict raging inside her, Tissaia can see it reflected in her eyes. Yennefer reaches out and Tissaia nearly flinches, her cheek still smarting from the slap. But she only licks her thumb and wipes at a smudge Tissaia cannot see. Her fingers ghost over the bruise on Tissaia’s cheek and her eyes flutter with regret. Tissaia takes her by the hand and pulls her to her feet,

“Come, there’s something you should see.”

“No more memories. I am sick of the past, Tissaia. Nothing there can be changed.”

As she says it Yennefer realises it is true. She has spent so long being angry with the past, trying to rewrite it so that she may define her place in this world. And it has been exhausting. Tissaia tugs gently on her scarred wrists to make her step forward,

“No memories. Just an introduction.”

She leads them to the edge of the cliff where amidst the flowers, two small cairns stand side by side. She touches the first, “Isàna.” And lays a hand on the next, “Your father.”

She reaches and picks a rose, turns to face Yennefer, holding the flower up between them. Yennefer grimaces,

“Sometimes, the best thing a flower-“

Tissaia presses her fingers to her lips to hush her and tucks the rose into the curls behind Yennefer’s ear,

“Sometimes, a flower is _just_ a flower.”

Then, she steps away and begins the walk back to Aretuza. Yennefer moves slowly towards the second cairn, reaching out tentatively. She pauses and looks over her shoulder when she feels Tissaia nudge her thoughts. The rectoress is already past the tower but she has turned back to look at Yennefer, shielding her eyes with her hand against the sun, the wind stirring her hair.

_All you have to do is tell me when you want me to open my hands and let you go. You will always be free, Yennefer. That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy me holding you sometimes._

Tissaia turns and continues walking, leaving Yennefer to make her peace with the past. For her own part, she lifts the pendant on its thick silver chain from round her neck. Too long it has sat over her ribcage, weighing down, reminding her why she must never open it up too far. Her fingers have worn the raised edges smooth, the polished stone in the centre dulled with worrying. She considers throwing it into the sea but that is rather melodramatic for her taste. Instead, she slips it into her pocket. There will still be days when she must wear it, days when hard choices must be made. But it will now _be_ a choice, a decision, to put it on. Now, when her fingers automatically reach for it to calm herself, they will instead find her own heartbeat which is as good a guide as any.

That night, the Ball is oddly subdued. It is too soon after Sodden for there to be merriment. There is, however, an air of hope. Mages are lauded far and wide as heroes and the Kingdoms are being unusually courteous. Tissaia is painfully aware of the missing faces – more than once she finds herself at a loss when she would normally have been talking to Vanielle or Coral and instead has to study a sculpture or portrait to avoid looking lonely and out of place. She evades Vilgefortz as much as possible, he is too ingratiating for her liking and she suspiciously probes the barriers he has put round his thoughts. And to Stregebor she gives only the particularly scathing look she reserves exclusively for him. She is dressed in a bottle-green gown, silky satin with crisp pleats in the long skirt flowing from a cinched waist. Rather daringly for her, the décolletage and sleeves are black lace and the back plunges down to the middle of her spine, teasing glimpses of her shoulder blades. Her hair is pinned intricately, little braids intertwined, and smooth sleek sides swept back from her parting, her neck deliciously bare without a high collar to cover it. She finds Triss and Sabrina chatting with some sorcerers she does not know and lets herself enjoy their youthful eagerness, their enthusiastic bantering. Triss links her arm through hers and Tissaia is grateful for the young mage’s affection, the night has been lonely thus far. A quiver in the air draws her eyes to the double doors and she supresses a knowing smile, shakes her head in amused exasperation. Of course, Yennefer is going to make an entrance.

She glides through the doors, elegant and dangerous, turning heads like always. Tissaia’s stomach does a summersault and she grips Triss’ arm hard, glad she does not have to rely solely on her shaky knees to keep her upright. Yennefer is stunning tonight. A black dress with a beaded bodice and mermaid skirt, flames of white and grey licking up round the hem. Her hair is pinned up loosely, little curls falling round her face, a silky tail brushing the nape of her neck and in amongst the black is nestled a single white rose. Tissaia’s breath hitches when she sees it, she hardly dares hope. And then Yennefer comes towards her, fixing her with those eyes, standing so close Tissaia has to look up at her, the air tingling with Chaos and lilac and gooseberries. The harp and viol begin a deep, lilting waltz, the fiddle singing over the top with breathless notes. Yennefer holds up an upturned hand between them and brushes her thoughts against Tissaia’s,

_I want you to hold me._

Tissaia’s eyes grow soft and she places her hand in Yennefer’s,

_Always. Hold me too. My precious girl._

Yennefer smiles and pulls her into a waltz hold, her hand splaying against the bare skin at the small of Tissaia’s back, Tissaia’s hand curling under her arm, elegant fingers resting on her shoulder. They sweep into a lilting step, graceful and fluid, moving like they know each other’s bodies by heart. Yennefer leads them into larger circles, intricate turns and steps, taking over the whole floor heedless of the crowd gathered to watch. She twirls Tissaia and brings her in again but with her back to Yennefer, their hands now joined on Tissaia’s hip, the arch-mage looking up at Yennefer over her shoulder and their leading arms held out, palms resting atop each other. As the music swells, Tissaia turns to face Yennefer and guides her hands to her waist, braces her hands on her shoulders and leaps into the air, Yennefer lifting her and twirling slowly. This time though, Tissaia keeps her head tilted down so she can press a kiss to Yennefer’s hair as she cradles her against her chest. Yennefer wraps her arms fully round Tissaia’s waist, pressing her cheek against her heart and shutting her eyes. Then, Tissaia cups her face and tilts it up, bends her head and kisses Yennefer full on the mouth, long and hard, not letting go of her even as Yennefer lowers her to her feet and pulls her to press the lengths of their bodies together. So close that they no longer know where one ends and the other begins. When at last they must breathe, they rest their foreheads together, swaying in a lazy spin. Yennefer leans down and murmurs in Tissaia’s ear,

“I love you too.”

Tissaia smiles and Yennefer strokes her dimples. The music ends and the bemused crowd applauds, Sabrina responsible for a particularly shrill wolf-whistle which Tissaia glares at. Yennefer chuckles and when a polka starts up, she lets Tissaia pull her into the fray, her eyes sparkling and their interlocking fingers tingling. She knows she is in good hands. Precious, beautiful hands that hold her up when she is too broken to fly and release her gently into the air when she is mended. Tissaia feels Yennefer’s fingers against her skin, wonderfully strong and dangerous fingers that press against her cold, fearful ribs and make them melt away to release her heart. She knows this is where her heart belongs, here beneath Yennefer’s hand. And so, safe in this knowledge, they each take hold of the other and let the world spin past them.

_So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well,_

_Into that world inverted,_

_Where left is always right,_

_Where the shadows are really the body,_

_Where we stay awake all night,_

_Where the heavens are shallow as the sea_

_is now deep, and you love me. - Elizabeth Bishop_


End file.
